


Shed No Hot Blood

by Meridians_of_Madness



Category: Good Omens (TV)
Genre: Aziraphale Has a Vulva (Good Omens), Bottom Aziraphale (Good Omens), Humiliation, M/M, Object Insertion, Sexual Roleplay, Top Crowley (Good Omens), inappropriate use of a flaming sword, ravishment roleplay
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-02-03
Updated: 2020-02-03
Packaged: 2021-02-28 00:55:12
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,152
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22535068
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Meridians_of_Madness/pseuds/Meridians_of_Madness
Summary: Aziraphale has thoughts (and at least one graphic fantasy) about what you can and should do with a flaming sword.-Filled for the kink meme prompt locatedhere.
Relationships: Aziraphale/Crowley (Good Omens)
Comments: 11
Kudos: 262





	Shed No Hot Blood

“Aziraphale, where is the flaming sword that was given unto thee?”

Aziraphale had a moment of panic before he realized that the voice speaking was not divine- the opposite, really- and then he had another one when he felt a hot sharp edge set against the side of his neck from behind.

“Ha, just kidding. It's right here,” said Crowley cheerfully. “Why don't you turn around, angel? Slowly, if you please.”

Heart in his throat, Aziraphale turned around to see Crowley standing behind him, the flaming sword in his hand. Thin blue flames slid up the length of the bare blade, the heat almost entirely self-contained for the moment.

“Crowley... I thought that was lost..”

“Oh, it's fascinating what you can find if you know where to look, angel, and I do. What a nasty thing, isn't it? You must have been a terror during the war.”

Aziraphale frowned and gave a brief shake of his head. Crowley continued without skipping a beat.

“Ought not have been so careless, angel. Now it's mine.”

“It most certainly is not,” Aziraphale said, starting forward to take the sword from Crowley, but then the point came up to hover just a few inches from the base of his throat. Crowley's smile became a great deal colder.

“Now, now,” Crowley cautioned. “Wouldn't want my hand to slip, would you? Why don't you just take a few steps back, now, there's a good lad.”

Scowling, Aziraphale retreated until his back was against the bookshelf, but Crowley followed him, the sword -his sword- still at his throat.

“ _What_ a pretty picture you make,” Crowley mused, almost to himself “Do you want this sword back, angel?”

“You must know that I do,” Aziraphale said stiffly, and Crowley laughed.

“Yes, but I don't know what you'll do to get it back. Tell me about that.”

Aziraphale bit his lip. It was his sword, it had been placed in his hand when Eden was new, and then it was... lost... for six thousand years before resurfacing just before the end times. Then, oh, really, forget his own head next, he had lost it again. Now it was in Crowley's hand, and the demon was wearing a smile he was sure he did not trust.

“Well, what do you want?” he asked, and Crowley made a considering sound.

“Let's have you naked for a start.”

Aziraphale made a shocked noise, but the tip of the sword lowered to snag at the buttons of his waistcoat, teasing them gently one after another.

“Or I could do it...”

All right. A little humiliation. He could take a little humiliation. He was of Heaven, after all, and what was a human corporation, anyway?

Even just taking off his coat, however, Aziraphale was reminded that human bodies came with human emotions and responses. He shivered at the slow shedding of his garments, first the outer layers and then the inner ones, setting them neatly aside on an ottoman placed there just for that purpose. He felt like some kind of peeled root vegetable when he was done, barefoot on the rug, pale in the dim light, but Crowley gave an appreciative whistle.

“Pretty as a pearl, you are,” the demon observed, and Aziraphale huffed with irritation that was covering up something much else.

“All right,” he said, trying to put some authority into his voice. “You've had your bit of fun, please give me back my sword.”

Crowley let the point of the sword drop to the ground - _bad form, that,_ commented a voice in the back of Aziraphale's head- and he gave Aziraphale a doe-eyed look.

“Is that what you want, angel?” he asked. “Want me to give it to you?”

“Yes, of course I do,” Aziraphale said impatiently.

“Really?”

“Crowley, what are you playing at? Of _course_ I want you to give it to me!”

Crowley shrugged as if the matter was all one to him.

“Have to give the angel what he wants,” he commented, and the next moment, he had pushed Aziraphale hard against the bookshelf with one hand to the shoulder, reversing the burning sword in the other.

Aziraphale gasped as the pommel of the sword pressed hard against his sternum and dragged a heavy path down his belly.

“What a perfect angel you are,” Crowley crooned. “I suppose I could make a kingdom of Heaven within you joke, but... rather tasteless in light of what I'm going to do to you, isn't it?”

“What you're- Crowley!”

Aziraphale made an outraged offended sound as the pommel of the sword pressed hard against his mound and then slipped just right so it was snug against the apex of his slit. The rounded pommel was warm, stretching the skin there just short of painfully, and his clit, directly under the hard pressure, throbbed.

“Crowley,” he said again, but this time he couldn't keep the dread out of his voice. “Crowley, you mustn't.”

Crowley let the pressure up for a moment only to press back and harder this time, a bright sharp grin on his face as he leaned close.

“Oh, you're not telling me what to do right now, angel,” he said lazily. “You want your sword back? Shut that oh so pretty mouth of yours and do what Heaven taught you best: take it and hope for mercy.”

It was almost too much, but then as Crowley started to rock the pommel against his clit, stretching the surrounding skin with the most insidious force, Aziraphale didn't care. He could take _almost too much,_ was designed for it. His hands sought the edge of the bookshelf behind him, and he planted his feet on the ground, widening his stance to better push up against the steel.

“That's pretty,” Crowley murmured. “That _nice,_ aren't you _nice_ , spread out like this just for me. Most beloved below Heaven. Most lovely under the eye of the divine...”

Aziraphale started to argue that of course he wasn't, but then, oh, Crowley was easing the pommel down to his cunt, moving so slowly that the anticipation ached, and how in the world could he already be so very _slippery...?_

“Hm, I was going to be sweet about this, but I don't think you really want me to be, do you?” Crowley purred. “Not you, wet as you are. No, you need this too much for me to bother being sweet, don't you?”

Aziraphale opened his mouth to protest, but then he cried out instead as Crowley lined the hilt of the sword up and started pushing it up into him with a relentless force. The sword was long enough that the angle wasn't kind, pushing hard and making him tilt his hips forward. There was absolutely no give to the hilt at all, and it invaded him without the least mercy that Crowley had told him to hope for.

“Oh, Crowley, Crowley, you _can't,”_ Aziraphale whimpered, and Crowley laughed.

“Of course I can. And angel, you are going to take it, aren't you, spread out like this for me. You're going to take it, and you are going to love it, and maybe when you're done, I'll let you lick it clean...”

Aziraphale was already struggling, eyes shut tight and hips rocking up to meet Crowley's shallow thrusts. The words _unforgiving_ and _violated_ flitted through his mind. His blood pounded in his ears as something in the back of his head reminded him of the weight of the sword, and of how the pommel was as dense as the heart of a star just to balance it. It was _his sword_ , no one else's, and it shouldn't, oh it _shouldn't_ be used like this, to make him cry out and whine and beg, because he was begging now, with his hips, with his muffled cries, and the way his eyes teared up.

The hilt of his sword was warm inside him, so warm that Crowley's hand wrapped carefully around the guard was almost cool, and below that, he could still feel the welcoming heat of the blade itself caressing his bare thighs.

“Oh _look_ at you,” Crowley murmured, speeding up his thrusts slightly. “Mounted on this holy weapon and squirming like the prettiest little whore. Look at you, what would Heaven say if they could see you now?”

Aziraphale knew how it would go, how the disgust and shock would cloud their eyes, how they wouldn't even have the words to shame him for something this. It sent a powerful shock of pleasure through him, subversive and defiant, and he dug his heels into the ground to press his hips up more firmly.

Crowley pressed his face against the crook of Aziraphale's neck, kissing the hot damp skin there fervently.

“Whore,” he said lovingly. “Not Heaven's anymore, are you? No, you're mine, all mine, and you show it so well, that's right, _just_ like that...”

Aziraphale spent some timeless eon like that, impaled on the hilt of his own sword, and oh but this was the only thing it was for now. It was not to be used against demons or humans or other angels, but only for pleasure, only for this delicious humiliation that was really just love with another face. It was excruciating, it was mortifying, it would surely mark him in some way he could never get rid of, and he was starved for it...

Crowley forced his hand down between their bodies, his fingertips hard against Aziraphale's clit. Aziraphale groaned at the addition of yet more sensation, but Crowley worked at him relentlessly. He wasn't after pleasure, and the roughness combined with the sword hilt pressed so far into Aziraphale that he could feel the guard grinding into his thighs finally made Aziraphale burst into tears.

“Angel-!”

Crowley went still, but then Aziraphale was climaxing so hard that he shouted, throwing his head back and banging it against the shelf behind him. The intensity of it, of being filled, humiliated, stimulated and loved so well overwhelmed him, and he didn't stop shaking until Crowley worked the sword out of his body.

He was just starting to say something when Crowley's arm dropped and the sword slipped from his fingers. Before it could clatter to the floor, Aziraphale caught it easily and dismissed the flames. The hilt was wet and sticky with his own arousal, and another shiver of pleasure shook him.

“Fucking hell, that's _heavy,_ angel,” complained Crowley, shaking out his arm and flexing his hand.

“Of course it is,” Aziraphale said with a slightly watery but entirely genuine smile. “Are you all right, my dear?”

“Should be asking you that,” Crowley said. “You were crying.”

Aziraphale shook his head, dismissing it.

“You know I do sometimes. It was...” He searched for the right word, and then shrugged helplessly. “Everything I wanted. Everything I think I have wanted for a very long time. Thank you.”

“You did look like you were having fun, for a very specific definition of fun,” Crowley said with a grin. “You know you're always welcome, angel, and I know how thankful you are.”

Aziraphale raised an eyebrow at that, wiping the hilt of his sword clean with a handkerchief tugged from the pile of clothing he had discarded. He was, he noticed somewhat absently, still naked. He snapped his fingers to clothe himself again, not interested in fumbling with all those fasteners.

“Do you have an idea of what shape that thanks might take?” he asked politely.

“Do I,” Crowley said. “Well, I mean, first, rub my arm until the feeling comes back. Cause fucking _hell,_ angel...”

“Yes, you have made your feelings clear. And then?”

“Well, I know you don't like the soldier bit, sorry about that, by the way-”

“I was one, no getting around it, but it's all right.”

“But I was thinking of something... maybe a little gentler. Maybe something like seeing to a bad little demon with whatever tools you have handy...”

Aziraphale considered, idly twirling his sword through one of the first drills he had learned, up into first position, rotated around his head and cut from the side. Out of the corner of his eye, he caught Crowley's sudden breath and fascinated look.

“As if you needed to be properly set down and humbled?” he suggested. “Bent over and made to say...?”

Crowley licked his lips, eyes yellow and longing. Aziraphale loved him with every fiber of his being.

“That I'm sorry I pissed you off, that I won't do it again, please, it's just too much, _please_ be nice...”

Aziraphale smiled, and quicker than even an occult eye could follow, the edge of the blade was snugged just underneath Crowley's jaw. It was a more secure threat than a point against the throat, and he stepped close, letting the razor edge slide along Crowley's precious skin without ever, ever breaking it.

“Oh, I think that can be arranged, darling,” he murmured.


End file.
